When Times Were Bad: Those Good Old Days

By Paul Angus Barber

William didn’t mind caring for his Granddad, he loved him dearly, but the generational gap between them was clear for him to see. With nothing in common, he longed for a closer relationship in these, his Granddad’s final months.
However, Granddad rarely had anything interesting to say these days.
This was until he stumbled onto the subject of his youth growing up in a Yorkshire town during the Second World War. Suddenly, his world was alive with reminiscences of the past, resilient local communities and his eventful childhood during the war years.
Through Granddad’s youthful eyes, William could see how his family had survived those hard times through love and close relationships, something that even now echoed through time and would have a significant effect on himself.
Yet, it wasn’t all good times and war spirit; it was often death, tragedy and heartbreak. Looking back through rose tinted glasses, even some of ‘those good old days’ were not quite that.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fishcake Publications
• Release date: Jul 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781909015395

Paul Angus Barber

Paul was born into a large family in Birstall west Yorkshire. After leaving school in 1998 Paul went on to train, firstly in art and design, and then musical theatre, which led to a long history as a stage performer up and down the United Kingdom.After succumbing to illness Paul swapped the stage for a pen and rekindled his childhood passion for writing.Paul became a serious writer in 2010 when he joined the Birstall Creative Writing Group. To date his biggest influences are the famed poet Seamus Heaney who heavily inspired his early poetry and the author Frank McCourt of Angela’s Ashes fame.

Book preview

By

Paul Angus Barber

Fishcake Publications

When Times Were Bad

Those Good Old Days

Published by Fishcakes Publications

Huddersfield

www.fishcakepublications.com

ISBN 978-1-909015-39-5

Smashwords Edition

© Paul Angus Barber 2016.

All Rights Reserved.

First Edition Published in Great Britain in 2016.

Title, character and place names are all protected by the applicable laws. This book is a work of fiction, therefore names, characters and events are fictitious and any resemblance to an actual person, living or dead, or any actual event is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission from copyright owners.

Firstly, to my Granddad Wilfred Angus,

and secondly, to my treasured friend Mary Gray.

Your stories were a great inspiration to me

and will live on for ever,

albeit in an exaggerated form.

About the Author

Paul was born into a large family in Birstall West Yorkshire. After leaving school in 1998, Paul went on to train, firstly in art and design, and then musical theatre, which led to a long history as a stage performer up and down the United Kingdom.

After succumbing to illness Paul swapped the stage for the pen and rekindled his childhood passion for writing.

Paul became a serious writer in 2010 when he joined the Birstall Creative Writing Group. To date his biggest influences are the famed poet Seamus Heaney who heavily inspired his early poetry and the author Frank McCourt of Angela’s Ashes fame.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

Chapter 1

Beneath a grim colour of thick, grey cloud lies a small, quiet village, at the centre of which lays a triangular Victorian cobbled market place. Just off a busy tram filled main road is a small cemetery where, in the not too distant future, will be the resting place of men and women from Birstall, dead from the coming war.

William Hudson kicked his snow-covered boots against the wall at the side of the step before walking into the now familiar damp, tobacco smell. He had become accustomed to this since taking over the role of carer for his elderly grandfather two weeks before, ever since his granddad’s wife of fifty-eight years had passed away.

Mr Brook had become ill himself and, being no longer able to cook, clean or even wash, had allowed William to take over. Luckily, William was taking a year out before returning to University, studying for a degree in the Arts.

He was greeted at the door by Sam, a shabby-looking, bronze coloured mongrel dog. The ear splitting, yapping bark took Will by surprise as it always did. He thought he should be used to it by now, but clearly he wasn’t.

‘Morning, little man,’ he said to Sam as he stroked the back of his ears. ‘Morning Granddad!’ he shouted through to the living room before heading to put the kettle on for his first brew of the day. He then took off his coat and unwrapped the scarf from around his neck. ‘Alright, Granddad?’ he asked as he threw his belongings on the sofa.

‘Aye lad,’ Mr Brook answered in a quiet but gruff voice.

‘Drink?’ said Will.

‘Oh aye, go on then,’ Mr Brook replied as he sat upright in his chair and began to roll himself a cigarette.

After Mr Brook’s breakfast of porridge, made with water, not milk, and with a pinch of salt in it, not sugar, and his second cup of tea, Will helped his granddad to get dressed. This was a task Mr Brook loathed and despised; not because he didn’t want to get dressed, but because he had to have help doing it. He was a proud man. However, he would only let Will do so much; he took off his t-shirt and trousers then after a quick swill in the washing up bowl, replaced them with clean ones. Will put his t-shirt on for him but then left the room; Mr Brook wanted to keep some form of dignity so insisted on changing his own underwear.

Now, Mr Brook’s ramblings had previously bored Will to tears and so he had settled into a routine of randomly nodding whilst throwing in the occasional ‘oh yeah’ to look like he was paying attention to what the old man was saying.

But today he actually caught Will’s attention.

After almost two hours of Granddad explaining the storyline of a particular Star Trek movie, Will had settled into his nods and ‘oh yeahs’ when the old man suddenly stopped talking. It took a few minutes for Will to realise this before slowly turning his head to look at his granddad, who was staring right back at him, a half cup of cold tea in one hand resting on the chair arm and a cigarette in the other, long since extinguished.

‘I haven’t always been like this you know,’ said Mr Brook in a soft voice.

‘What do you mean, Granddad?’ asked Will.

‘I’ve not always been old and useless.’

‘You’re not useless, Granddad,’ Will replied hoping to lift the other’s dim mood.

‘I was a kid like you once.’

‘Granddad, I’m hardly a kid; I’ll be twenty-one in a couple of months,’ said Will, laughing as he did so.

‘Oh, you are? Your mam is still a kid to me. What I mean is, I was once young and full of life. A long time ago mind.’

‘What are you on about Granddad? You’ve got plenty of life still in you,’ he lied. He was obviously lying because it was quite clear his granddad was clearly giving up on life.

‘Nah, I’ve nowt to live for now, not since your nan went.’

Desperately trying to change the subject, Will decided to ask him how different it was in Birstall when he was younger.

‘Very,’ answered Mr Brook.

Will laughed again at his one word answer. ‘Ok then…’ he said struggling for something else, ‘…what is your earliest memory?’ He smiled and silently congratulated himself on the change of conversational direction.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Mr Brook. ‘As a kid?’

‘Well, in general, what was it like? What can you remember?’

‘About what?’

‘About anything…the war-’ Will blurt out without a second thought, ‘do you remember the war?’

‘Oh aye! Of course I do. I was a kid in the war.’ Suddenly his voice softened and a look of deep concentration settled on his face. ‘Aye, I remember lots about that…

‘I remember the sound of the last school bell for the Christmas holiday and the look of anticipation on all the children’s faces. As the ear-splitting sound faded to silence, Mr Goody’s droopy mouth began to head north as a slight but recognisable grin appeared on his face. He hesitated, drew a deep breath then - DISMISSED! The doors opened and a flood of children swarmed the playground and half of Chapel Lane.

‘I recall it being unusually bright and chirpy for a late-December afternoon. The contrast between the white, fluffy snow and the light, baby-blue sky seemed inspiring to my young eyes. My happiness was embellished and my smile widened as I spotted my dad scraping the path outside the house clear of snow on Blackburn Road. As I walked towards him I felt my balance become uneasy on the ice covered cobbles. I’ll never forget the distinct cringing sound of metal scraping against the hard, frozen stone work. He brought his large hands around my skinny little shoulders and walked me through the door after leaning the shovel against the door frame.

‘My dad, Harry Brook, was a brave man; never backed down from anything, always stood up for himself and for his rights; he knew what was right and what was wrong, morally and personally. He was stern but had a gentle manner. Well-built and a rather handsome chap, he’d worked most of his life for a company called Sunblest. He’d been working for the same company since he’d left school at fourteen, and slowly worked his way up the ladder until eventually becoming manager. He was originally from Scotland but he moved down to Yorkshire with his family at the age of nine.

‘My granddad was what you might call a lover of alcohol, but the feeling was most definitely not mutual. In fact, it made him violent to the extent where he would fight anyone, any place, at any time, whilst under the influence. My Nana Brook, unfortunately, took the brunt of his anger. Dad said Granddad began to drink heavily on his return from the war, The Great One, you know!

‘You see, being a big man, much like my dad, even in old age, he didn’t have to force a punch in order to hurt her. But with her bravado in place she never complained about his drunken outbursts or even mentioned they ever took place, but Dad always knew. She prayed a lot my nan; I guess that’s where she found all her strength.

‘This is why my granddad moved his family down to Yorkshire and away from all he had known. He had unfortunately gained a reputation for arriving at work - when he had a job - drunk, and would start fights and generally cause trouble with his colleagues. With this reputation, he was unable to get and keep a job, and decided to start afresh.

‘Despite his heavy drinking and violent mood swings, Dad and Granddad were very close - when the latter was sober. He always had time for his son. The thing I’ve always remembered about my dad was the time he would dedicate to me. He would always take time out and read to me before I had to go to bed and stay with me until I fell asleep. The sort of thing a mum would usually do. He loved telling me jokes and laughing, in fact he talked, we talked, a lot. My dad never told me that he loved me, but there wasn’t a moment in my life that I didn’t know it.

‘Indoors we were greeted by my mam who was singing to herself while laying the table for a dinner of mashed potatoes, pork chops and peas; she always wore a light brown apron with a lace that tied around her large hips when cooking. My mam, Mary Brook, was a gentle woman. She was brought up in a religious family and had lived in Birstall all of her life. She was also strict, but only in the religious sense; she never hit me. Neither Mam nor Dad used physical discipline. She’d worked as a hand-sewer at Jessop’s Mill since she left school. She was quite a thin woman, but according to Gran she used to be a big-un, there’s nowt she wun’t eat she would say. Her wavy, dark brown hair fell down over her round face and she had calming, bright brown eyes that always seemed to have a twinkle.’

Will looked in awe at his Granddad, he had never heard so much come from his mouth, never mind all the things he was learning about his grandparents and great-grandparents. He could see the nostalgia in Mr Brook’s eyes as they glazed over and stared off into the distance of the years gone by. He’d touched upon something here and he didn’t want to